The Distant Ghost
The frost had not yet melted from the cobblestones of Oakhaven’s central square, a hard, white crust that bit into the soles of Elias Thorne’s boots as he stood before the magistrate’s bench. He was a man of forty years, his face a map of deep lines carved by wind and duty, his eyes the flat, unyielding grey of winter sky. Julian, the accused, sat in the cell below, a boy of nineteen with a...
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